


The One Fixed Point

by jenna221b



Series: The Future of Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mary is Moran, Mind Palace, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-His Last Vow, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, then. Everything. <em>Tilts.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Fixed Point

**Author's Note:**

> References events from _**[The Rat's Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3882556) **_

Sherlock doesn't know why he is here. But, there _has_ to be a reason; there's always _something_. The court room is his logical haven: he knows every inch of it, knows the pattern that always occurs when he uses it. Any moment now- his evidence. Granted, he hasn't a clue what his evidence _is_ , but it will come, surely. It _has_ to. 

Nothing. Sherlock paces around the stubbornly empty court room. The sound of his footsteps echoes painfully.

"But, that's not right," he murmurs. His voice bounces off the walls in a mocking parrot fashion: _That's not right, that's not right._

Sherlock takes one more step forward. "How-"

He is cut short as he now finds himself in Mycroft's office. Yes, this makes more sense. Sherlock stands by the desk expectantly. Mycroft will be here shortly, bound to be. He must be in a meeting, a very important one, no doubt.

So, Sherlock waits. And waits. There is a little clock on the desk with an obnoxiously loud ticking noise. _Tick, tick, tick_ , it pounds against Sherlock's head, an ever present death knell, and he tenses, reaches towards it, ready to silence it-

He stops, hand still outstretched. Next to the clock lies a phone with a smashed screen. It is familiar in some way, but Sherlock can't quite place it. He picks up the phone and tries to turn it on. Nothing happens. Sherlock turns the phone over and over in his hand. And then, he notices spots of blood on his palm. He pauses. Turns over the phone one more time.

The phone is _bleeding_. Sherlock yells, and drops the phone. He can hear Mycroft's gloating whisper in his ear: "Did you _forget_ , brother mine? Always such a disappointment."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock says, but when he turns around, Mycroft is on the floor. He is clutching at his bloody stomach, choking, eyes rolling back into his head. Sherlock tries to rush to him but, suddenly, he simply _can't_. It's as if an invisible wall separates them, and Sherlock repeatedly slams into it, crying out in frustration. "Someone help him! Please, God," he begs, now trying to drown out a distant klaxon along with Mycroft's gasping breaths. "He can't- he can't _breathe_."

And, then. Everything. _Tilts_.

The desk comes crashing down, almost hitting Sherlock as he is thrown against the wall, Mycroft travelling in the opposite direction.

"No. _No!_ " Sherlock says. "This is all _wrong._ "

But, the mind palace is not listening, turning and turning until Sherlock feels sick to his stomach. "Enough!" he tries, a last ditch attempt. "Stop it, stop it _now!_ "

The room slows its spinning ever so slightly, and Sherlock forces himself to stand, his legs shaking. He wrenches open the door and-

He is faced with utter chaos. The walls of the corridor are closing in. Sherlock tries to stop it with his hands, but there's no point; the rooms are morphing into one another, doors bursting open, windows shattering-

A flash of white. No, not quite- fabric of some... a _veil_.

Mary is aiming her gun straight at Sherlock's head, and Sherlock's mouth goes dry because he can't _do_ this again.

Mary smirks. "Oh, Sherlock. Don't be slow." And, her aim shifts as she fires-

And, Redbeard is howling in pain, blood soaking his matted fur. Sherlock falls to his knees. "R-Redbeard," he manages, "It's okay, it's alright."

But, rather than whimpering in defeat, Redbeard growls, gnashes his teeth, eyes cold in non-recognition as he backs away, hackles raised.

The mind palace gives a great shudder like a broken down lift. Jim Moriarty crashes through a wall, ripping off his straight jacket in triumph. He gives a wide grin, lips covered in spittle. "You're letting everyone down, Sherlock," he sing-songs, all grotesque pantomime.

Sherlock flees. "No, not you, _not_ you!"

The walls are edging ever nearer as he reaches the staircase, breath caught in his throat. He is at the top of one flight before the whole staircase starts to give way. He is screaming and screaming-

"Sherlock. _Sherlock_."

Sherlock looks up to see John a few steps ahead, reaching for him with his hand.

"It's okay," John tells him. He is calm and constant, the soldier ready for battle. His eyes flicker with a fierce fire. _Just the two of us against the rest of the world..._

Sherlock reaches for John, but the steps are crumbling beneath him. He shakes his head. "I can't- I can't do it, John." A whisper is all he can manage as sudden hot tears fill his eyes and spill over, pathetic and ugly. "I'm sorry- so sorry."

John just smiles, still holding out his hand. "Don't worry," he says. "We'll figure it out, yeah? You and me." When Sherlock does not reply, he adds, "That's _my_ vow. Trust me."

That is all Sherlock needs. He takes a deep breath, lunges for John, and John's hand clasps his own, a warm weight. Together, they climb up the remaining steps, not knowing what lies ahead-

Sherlock jolts awake with a gasp. He can feel his pyjama t shirt sticking to his back with cold sweat, but he stays in bed, willing his heartbeat to slow down. His bedroom is bathed in darkness, and for one horrible moment, the walls appear to move in closer and closer. Sherlock throws the duvet off, jumps out of bed. The sudden movement makes his stomach lurch. Sherlock has one blind instant of panic- _please, **no**_ \- before he's staggering to the bathroom.

He doesn't even make it to the toilet. He half falls to the tiled floor, and reaches in desperation for the nearest thing which just so happens to be the bath. His vomit splatters against the inside of the bath, loud and undignified. Sherlock can feel his cheeks burning in mortification.

There's a little _click_ as the bathroom light is turned on. Sherlock tries to raise his head and acknowledge John, but his stomach twists, and he doubles over to throw up again. In the distance, he can hear the tap from the sink being turned on. Water runs for a few seconds, and then the tap is switched off.

John kneels next to him. Sherlock spits out the remaining bile, takes a few steadying breaths, mutters, "Sorry."

"Don't be stupid," John says, voice soft. His hand is on the back of Sherlock's neck, a gentle touch. "You sure you're finished?"

When Sherlock nods, John hands him a glass of water. "Just rinse with that," he says. "I'll get the rest."

Sherlock stands, and John turns on the bath's taps, washing the vomit away. Sherlock rinses out his mouth by the sink. It takes him a moment to realise that John is now standing next to him, looking at him with a crease in between his eyes. Sherlock doesn't really look back; he's just watching their reflections in the mirror above the sink.

"You okay?" John asks. It's such a _John_ question, his own little reflex. He says it even when it's crystal clear that _nothing_ is okay. Sherlock thinks it's not a question asked to reassure John alone. Instead, John asks it to give Sherlock a chance to speak for himself. No magic tricks.

Sherlock tears his gaze from the mirror to turn to John. "No," he gets out, hating how his voice cracks. 

John gives a little nod, and the crease in between his eyes disappears. "Well, that's okay," he replies. "We'll figure it out together. You and me."

Sherlock closes his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. He believes in John. He _has_ to.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [my tumblr post.](http://jenna221b.tumblr.com/post/118813612859/but-what-if-sherlocks-mind-palace-starts-to)


End file.
